Dark Crusade

by Vaughn Heppner

***

  That night, Hugo stirred uneasily. He slept in the common room of the Tower de Duc. Over a hundred years ago and under the direction of a foreign stonemason from Neetivia, and from the province of Duc, the tower had been chiseled out of the very mountain. Crusaders lying on reed mats snored all around Hugo, while in a corner a hound whined in its sleep. In the fireplace, dying embers gave a soft red glow to the huge room. When the last coal died, the windowless room would be as dark as a tax-gatherer’s heart.

  Hugo lay on a pallet of straw, a heavy quilt pulled over him. With his tongue, he kept testing his teeth and sucking air over them, wincing each time. He had tender teeth and never ate honey or sweetmeats. As a boy, honey-in-the-comb had been his favorite treat. It still was. He just never ate it. Tonight his teeth ached and kept him awake even when he knew that tomorrow would be a hard day. He shifted and tried breathing through his nose. His left nostril whistled. He loathed that, and knew that he would never fall asleep listening to it.

  He stared into the ruddy darkness. Swan slept several floors above him. She was alone in an upstairs cubicle. He imagined that she knelt by her cot praying to Hosar. Maybe white light from heaven highlighted her. She was so pure, so good. He had never known anyone like her. He had been bitter for so long, had always been knocked around before Gavin saved him from those Muscovite hunchbacks. He shivered at the memory. That had been a terrible time. Afterward, he had admired and watched Gavin take the noble fools at their own game. It had been a pleasure to see. But now it was different. Swan was truly good. She truly followed Hosar. She made him see that his old ways were grubby. It made him ashamed, and he still couldn’t believe that he was the Standard Bearer. He was the one who held the Banner of Tulun. He wasn’t pure. He was an old, crooked man with a shriveled heart. But he would try to do what was right. He had given oath to Hosar.

  Ah! His tooth, he breathed through his mouth again.

  He shifted on the straw, and blinked, his senses alert as he came wide awake. Something moved in the darkness. It moved on stealthy feet. He couldn’t see it. He felt it. Then he saw a form tiptoeing past sleeping men. The hound whined in its sleep again, but it didn’t awaken. None of the dogs stirred. Hugo went rigid with fear. Had a darkspawn slipped into the tower? He couldn’t move because of his terror.

  His eyes opened wider. Swan! The darkspawn must want Swan.

  He tried to move, but his fears were like shackles.

  The dark form headed for the spiral stairs that led up to Swan’s cubicle.

  Ah! His tooth, it ached. He rubbed his jaw, and that movement broke the paralysis.

  Hugo scrambled out of the cot, reaching under it and picking up his crossbow. He hurried for the stairs, winding the cord and slipping a bolt into the groove. He couldn’t fathom how a darkspawn had gotten this deep into Wyvis Keep. Then it occurred to him that Gavin had said the High Priest wouldn’t let this hosting go so easily. A man like the High Priest had more than one way to solve a problem. The hair on Hugo’s arms rose. The thing was barely ahead of him. He heard the shuffle of shoe leather. On silent feet honed in grim Godomar, Hugo followed.

  He reached the head of the spiral stone stairs as something scratched at Swan’s bolted door.

  Seconds stretched until candlelight flickered under the door jam. “Who’s there?” Swan asked from the other side.

  “A message from Gavin, milady,” replied a gravelly voice.

  “Gavin?” asked Swan, clattering back the bolt. She opened the door as her candle flickered.

  Hugo raised his crossbow and saw the bald assassin in the same instant. The assassin moved as lithe as a cat, ripping out a dagger. Before Swan had time to scream, a ka-chunk sounded. The assassin pitched forward, slamming into Swan, knocking the candle from her grasp.

  “Milady!” shouted Hugo.

  Somehow, the candle remained lit and Swan squirmed out from under the dead man’s body. On the floor, the dagger glistened with what had to be poison. Hugo’s crossbow bolt stuck out of the assassin’s back.

  “Don’t touch it,” hissed Hugo, as Swan reached for the dagger.

  She blinked at him, her features pale.

  Hugo knelt, and he put one of his rough’s hands on her cheek. “I’m going to get Gavin. He’ll know what to do. You must bolt the door and not open it until you hear my voice again. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, and there was fear in her eyes.

  It made Hugo ache. He took her hands and helped her stand. “You’re safe, milady. Old Hugo won’t let anything hurt you.”

  She picked up the candle and regarded the dead man. Something shifted upon her face. “Hurry,” she said. “Bring me Sir Gavin.”

  Gavin came, and he told them what they must do.

  Hugo wasn’t sure he liked the cunning of Gavin’s plan. They did Hosar’s work.

  Later, Ullrick raised a lantern over the dead man. He shook his head, saying, “No. I don’t know.”

  “Is he the High Priest’s man?” asked Swan.

  The Bear flushed. “I just told you I don’t know. What happened here? Why is this man dead?”

  Hugo told him.

  Ullrick scowled as he spat curses, saying what a despicable deed assassination was.

  Gavin told him he could leave and to be sure to say nothing about this to anyone.

  A half-hour after that Josserand stood in the room, telling them a different story.

  “That’s Gentile,” Josserand said. The man had taken time to don his mail-shirt and had a fighting dirk belted at his side. The High Priest’s mercenary glanced at each of them in turn. “Gentile was born a guttersnipe in faraway Constantinople and rose to be an alchemist’s apprentice. Had to flee far and fast, I heard. He stole from his master and failed to kill the alchemist when he discovered the theft. Gentile was knowledgeable about poisons and greedy for gold. He’s the High Priest’s special envoy for night work. Rest assured that there are others and that the High Priest will strike again, if not through envenomed blades than with golden bribes.”

  “Does Sir Ullrick know Gentile?” asked Gavin.

  Josserand hesitated a moment before nodding.

  “Does Ullrick know that Gentile is the High Priest’s assassin?”

  “Of course.”

  “So Ullrick lied to us,” Hugo said after Josserand had left.

  “Not necessarily,” Gavin said, who held the poisoned blade, studying it.

  They sat in Swan’s bedroom. The dead assassin had been removed. A shawl covered her shoulders as she stared out a slit window.

  Hugo protested, “But Josserand just said—”

  “I don’t believe him,” interrupted Gavin.

  Hugo arched his eyebrows. “Josserand is a crusader now. He swore an oath to Swan. He wouldn’t lie to us.”

  “You’ve never known a man to swear a false oath?” asked Gavin.

  “That is a base charge to make against a crusader,” Hugo said angrily.

  Swan turned to study Gavin.

  “Perhaps it is base,” Gavin said, “and if that is the case then I’ve another mark against my soul.” He wrapped the knife in a cloth, stuffing it in his belt. “Let us not forget that Josserand was the High Priest’s keenest sword. A few muttered words don’t necessarily change such a thing.”

  “Josserand swore on the banner!” Hugo said, striking a fist into his palm. “He knows that we fight for our very lives.”

  Gavin turned to Swan. “By your leave, milady.”

  She studied him a moment longer before permitting him to go. Soon thereafter, Hugo went back to his pallet to try to sleep the remainder of the night.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The next morning, Swan forbade any angry letters to be sent to Banfrey. Let the High Priest wonder and brood. That might delay his gathering of the King’s Army.

  Soon thereafter, they rode out of the castle and took the swamp route. Three grueling days took them through it. It was odd, but the swamp didn’t seem as bad as before. It rained on them
and some of the trees were black, but the grim presence… It had departed.

  The first night north of the swamp, Gavin posted heavy guards and instructed that they build large campfires. Many of the men had trouble sleeping, as they lay wrapped in their campaign cloaks. Sensing their fear, Swan walked among them and sang sweet melodies. Soon they smiled, and one by one, they nodded off.

  Gavin left the fires, whistling softly, pausing and whistling again, until he heard the return whistle. He soon squatted beside Hugo in the dark. The old crossbowman crouched behind a boulder, his one good eye scanning the night. Moonlit grasses waved as crickets chirped nearby. In the distance, a wolf howled.

  Hugo cocked his head and then shook his seamed face. “That ain’t no wolf.”

  “Just like Godomar, eh?”

  Hugo adjusted his leather hunting cap, grunting.

  “Muscovite Rules,” Gavin said softly.

  Hugo glanced at him. “Those are rules for blackhearts. We’re the crusaders, Swan’s crusaders. You’ve her reputation to think about.”

  “Reputations don’t help dead men.”

  “Don’t you understand? Men fight when they believe in something. They’ll flock to a seer leading them crusading, but they won’t flock to a rogue filled with guile.”

  “Is that how you see her?” asked Gavin.

  “She’s a seer.”

  “Yes. Our Seer,” Gavin said. “And that’s my point. As you did the other night with the assassin, I’ll do with the army she’s given me. To save her, I’ll shoot a man in the back.”

  Hugo shifted uneasily. “That was different.”

  With a cool breeze on his cheeks, Gavin eyed the night, the silvery grasses and the twinkle of distant stars. “We battle darkspawn, old friend. I know you understand what that means.”

  Hugo grunted once more. “You saved many of us in Godomar, aye, I’ve never forgotten that.”

  “I saved a handful. Maybe we can save another handful.” Gavin brooded. “You saw Forador Castle, or what it had become. Vivian, Joanna and the boy weren’t there. Surely they must be dead by now.”

  “Or turned into darkspawn,” Hugo said. “But we can save them.”

  “You believe that?” asked Gavin, his rugged face one of surprise. “I surely do not.”

  “Our Seer can save them.”

  “That isn’t how it went in Godomar.” Gavin lowered his voice. “We burned them at the stake, remember? That was the only salvation left them.” Before Hugo could answer, Gavin pushed off the boulder and strode back to camp, wrapping himself in a cloak and lying by a fire. He stared at the flames, hearing again in his memory the screams and howls of those they had burned. He shuddered. Fighting darkspawn was always ugly. There was nothing noble in it. One way or another, it stained you. He yawned.

  Much too soon, Welf shook him awake.

  Men shouted and dashed about, picking up spears or clanking and rattling as they donned armor. The dwindling campfires threw lurid light. Baron Bain shouted at his squire, bellowing for the fellow to bring him his morning star. It was a wicked-looking weapon: three spiked balls dangling by chains. Gavin had heard it said before that a warrior who used a morning star wasn’t right in the head. It was a murderous weapon. One unlucky swing and a ball could whip back to smash the wielder.

  The moon yet shone, although low on the horizon. It grinned like a demon. In the distance, Gavin heard squealing like that from a herd of boars. He accepted a shield and his sword. Men hoisted themselves into the saddle. Others ran to do likewise. Would they gallop into the darkness and blunder into gullies or break their horses’ legs over hidden rocks?

  The horrid pig-squeals floated on the night wind.

  “Monsters!” cried Welf.

  As Gavin buckled on armor, he shouted, “Foresters, squires and men-at-arms will stay afoot! All footmen will carry shields and torches. If you can’t find a torch, grab a brand out of the fire. Only knights and thegns are to be a-horse!”

  From bitter experience, Gavin knew that night fighting was risky. Darkness hid too much. A deer trampling in the woods became through panicked imagination a fire-breathing beast. Darkness also hid cowardice. A man was usually brave with someone to see it and he was often cowardly when he thought no one watched. In the dark, an army could turn into a frightened mob. He wanted the most battle-tested warriors on the steadiest steeds.

  Hugo cantered up, the banner waving in the breeze. Soon, twenty knights walked their stallions behind eighty footmen. The torches and fiery brands crackled and smoked. The pig-squeals sounded closer, to their left.

  “We should mount up,” said Baron Bain. He was a middle-aged knight with thinning hair and close-set eyes, scowling fiercely as he held onto his morning star.

  Gavin shouted the order, mounting up and rising in the stirrups to get a better view. Tall waving grasses spread out before the footmen. A knot of shadowy oak trees rose beyond that. Galloping past the oaks raced horsemen on wild-eyed mounts, moonlight glinting off their armor.

  “Horses,” said Welf. “What then makes the pig-squeals?”

  “Sound the trumpet!” cried Gavin.

  Welf blew mightily.

  “Advance on the run,” Gavin told the footmen.

  A bellow rose from the ranks as those afoot surged into the darkness, their torches blazing at the rush of air. Their shields clattered and their feet thudded. Behind them, the knights on their mighty chargers followed at a trot.

  Grotesque squeals heralded a murky, wicked sight. Massive boars, their short legs pumping, galloped from behind the trees and after the fleeing horsemen. Upon the bristly boars rode man-shaped things, tuskriders. They were hard to make out in the moonlight.

  “Hosar save us!” shouted Baron Bain. “What are they?”

  “Darkspawn,” said Swan, “our sworn foes.”

  Gavin judged the situation. The enemy had more fighters than he had knights. Yet the tuskriders had become strung out. He shouted orders and the footmen divided under their leaders, running to the left and to the right, creating a lane.

  “Sound the charge,” Gavin said, as he settled his great helm over his head.

  Welf blew the trumpet and twenty crusaders spurred their stallions. Armor clanked, shields rattled and the heavy wooden saddles creaked ominously. The massive chargers, also called high horses, picked up speed as their iron-shod hooves drummed like thunder. The humans who fled from the tuskriders veered away from the glittering lance-points. The nearest tuskriders lowered slender spears as they tried to form ranks.

  Gavin grinned within his helmet at the familiar tingle in his arms. His knights shouted and then he had no time to think. A crouching tuskrider aimed a spear at him. With a brutal shock, Gavin’s lance, longer than the enemy’s, pierced the tuskrider so it squealed. Gavin shook his lance free and re-aimed it at the next tuskrider. The lance splintered on the enemy’s shield. The monster grunted at the impact and flew from its saddle. Hurling away the broken lance, drawing his silver sword, Gavin barely shifted his triangular shield in time. The point of an enemy spear screeched across it. Gavin swung at the passing tuskrider, and then he was through their ranks. He yanked on the reins, wheeling his snorting stallion and roaring for Welf to sound the recall.

  A tuskrider flashed at him from his blind side, swinging a curved saber. Josserand rose in his stirrups, hurling his lance, spitting the tuskrider in the back.

  Gavin barely had time to glance at Josserand. “My thanks, sir! You saved me.”

  Josserand drew his sword and wheeled to face the rest of the tuskriders as they fled for their lives into the darkness. The darkspawn didn’t have any more stomach for this. A weird and warbling sound arose from their horns. On their bestial mounts, the enemy fled out of the torchlight.

  ***

  The humans who had escaped from the tuskriders seemed like walking dead. They had immobile masks instead of faces, glassy eyes and an inability to string out more than four words together. Gavin bade them sit at the bonfires and t
hen plied them with wine, watching them drink mechanically as they stared transfixed at the flames. One by one, they slumped over and fell into an exhausted slumber.

  One of them, however, refused to go down. He gulped his wine, and that brought a semblance of wit to his eyes. White hair hung from his head, and he had a lantern-shaped jaw. From the rings on his fingers and the quality of his sword, it was clear that once he had been a man of substance.

  “I’m Baron Aelfric,” he whispered, his back straightening at his title. For an older man, he had thick shoulders.

  “The Duke’s champion,” said Ullrick.

  The blood drained from Aelfric’s leathery face as he turned haunted eyes upon the Bear.

  “Easy, man,” Ullrick said uneasily.

  “Rest,” said Swan, draping a blanket onto the baron’s broad shoulders. She touched his hair as if he were a little boy. “It will be better in the morning.”

  Aelfric closed his eyes. They flew open a moment later as he wailed in despair.

  “He’s mad,” whispered Baron Bain. His morningstar was tucked under his belt. Clotted tuskrider blood and tissue yet clung to the spiked balls.

  “Mad?” said Aelfric, spittle drooling from his mouth. “Have you seen what I’ve seen?”

  Gavin held out a goblet of brandy.

  With a convulsive jerk, Aelfric slapped it away, spraying costly brandy onto the grass.

  “What did you see, sir?” Gavin asked gently.

  Aelfric shook his head.

  “Sir Aelfric.”

  Again that sudden headshake.

  “Tell us,” Gavin said, grabbing the front of the baron’s tunic.

  “Leave him alone, man!” shouted Ullrick. “He’s been to the Netherworld and back.”

  “Speak, Sir Aelfric,” Gavin said, dragging the older man to his feet. “Tell us what you saw.”

  Aelfric, a big, strong man, struggled to get away as tears leaked from his eyes.

  “Unhand him,” said Ullrick, grabbing one of Gavin’s biceps.

  “Get him out of here!” snarled Gavin.

  Sir Josserand and Baron Bain hustled away a protesting Ullrick.

  “You’re the knight,” Gavin told Aelfric. “You’re these people’s protector. Teach me about the darkspawn, sir.”